


an arse is an arse, of course, of course

by aeroport_art



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-18
Updated: 2009-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:11:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeroport_art/pseuds/aeroport_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin accidentally walks in on one of Prince Arthur's...indiscretions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man...I had SO MUCH HELP on this story. mini_moue was my lightning-fast proofer, [fourfreedoms](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_reaction/pseuds/fourfreedoms) gave this story the swift kick in the butt that it needed, and [oxoniensis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/oxoniensis/pseuds/Signe) was amazingly sweet to look this over on such short notice and still have such extensive concrit. So, THANK YOU GUYS. This story was major suckage before they chipped in with their amazing brains. Other than that...gosh, this story took me about SIX MONTHS to write but it's finally here. I hope you guys enjoy.

One afternoon, some weekday—a normal day replete in all its mundane fetch-and-clean glory—Merlin sees something he wasn’t meant to see. 

Moreover, it’s something he wishes he _hadn’t_ seen: Prince Arthur’s pale, bare arse.

There’s more, of course. If that were the whole of it—a simple case of accidental nudity—Merlin would hardly be bothered. He dresses the man, after all. He gets glimpses of Arthur’s skin and blond hair in all sorts of sensitive areas on almost a daily basis. No, seeing Arthur’s naked bum is no big deal…it’s what that bum was doing. Or rather, _who_ it was doing.

That particular afternoon, Merlin softly nudges open the door of Arthur’s private chambers with the back of his shoulder. He’s laden down with an armful of towels and equipment, bucket handle clamped firmly in his teeth to steady the entire, teetering monstrosity. When he finally turns around he’s immediately confronted with the following scene: the bare arse of Camelot’s very own Prince Arthur Pendragon pounds frenetically into the (equally bare) arse of another young man.

_What is he…? Oh._

Arthur gets a couple of thrusts in, partner squirming beneath him and Merlin watching with wide eyes before he snaps out of it—he splutters out the handle of the bucket (nearly dumping the entirety of its scalding contents all over himself) and his feet scramble an about-turn. 

Merlin flees, practically airborne. He tosses his things aside, catapults across the courtyard and dashes upstairs to bolt himself shut behind the solid door of his bedroom. 

Inside, the stillness of the unkempt room slowly infects him with its air of nonchalance and normalcy. Merlin allows himself to relax as he rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, though it doesn’t stop him vowing never again to enter Arthur’s chambers without first knocking. Funny, he’s been reprimanded often enough for such transgression—perhaps Arthur ought to have been caught with his britches down earlier, if it would encourage Merlin to be a little more discreet.

On the other hand—Merlin winces, vividly recalling the scene—no one should _ever_ have to undergo such trauma. One victim (one _glimpse_ ) was more than enough.

\-----

Unfortunately, if ‘once is more than enough’, then what’s ten, twenty times? Fifty times?

Merlin heaves a great sigh and flops onto his bed, unceremoniously dropping his open book of magic upon his face. _Magic, indeed,_ Merlin thinks sourly, breathing musty ink from the useless pages. _What good is it if it can’t stop you from re-living such a disturbing moment?_ Merlin grunts discontentedly and closes his eyes. 

It shouldn’t really be as awful as he’s making it to be. On that day, when he’d nudged open the door, Merlin hadn’t even seen all _that_ much. He was too busy balancing everything in his arms.

It was the scent in the air that really tipped him off. Clean sweat and deep musk. Only then did Merlin think to pay attention, and only then did he see it: two or three yards away, Arthur moving in unmistakable undulations against an unmistakably male body.

The skin of Arthur’s back was golden, the broad stroke of it glistening with sweat in the late afternoon sun that lazily filtered through the open window. Every muscle, every sinew of Arthur’s body was raised in stark relief as he mercilessly worked the body beneath him, and as Merlin stood there, dumbfounded, a strange notion had suddenly leapt forth. _He fucks like he fights._

Even now, days later in the privacy of his own room, Merlin cannot dispel the notion: _Arthur fucks like he fights_. It’s as true today as it was last week, that Arthur indeed throws himself into every activity with the same single-mindedness as he does when duelling. On offence, Prince Arthur drives forth with reckless abandon but when the situation begs caution, he coils up, tense and dangerous.

Despite the fact that Merlin caught only a fleeting view of the prince’s tryst, it in no way discredits his theory. Arthur’s quick jab into the body below resembled one of his easy insults, the long draw out like the holding of breath before an opponent’s blow. Few seconds though they were, they’d felt interminable—slow-motion, almost, as if Merlin had blinked and halted time himself. Who knows, maybe he had. Lord, but if Merlin could invoke his magic once again and banish the scene from his consciousness! He’s positively sick of it, of seeing Arthur lasciviously screwing some faceless stranger every time his eyes fall shut—

“Merlin!”

Jumping at the sound of his name, Merlin jerks upright. His book slips off his face with a thud on the ground beside him.

“Are you in there?” Gaius’ voice, though muffled through the door, sounds closer now. A firm knock follows. “You’re being called upon, Merlin. What are you doing home, anyway? The prince has been petulant all week, says you’ve been shirking your duties. He wants you in his chambers, _now._ ”

A deep flush makes its way to Merlin’s face. He can feel it there, warm and unbidden, but for what reason? He’s got nothing to be ashamed of, after all—it should be the prince who feels mortified!

Merlin steels himself and unlocks the door. Before him stands Gaius, exasperated but bemused. “You’ve got ink on your cheeks,” he dryly remarks. “Is there something I should know about you and that book?”

Merlin mutters something under his breath, but Gaius simply looks at him with that quirked eyebrow so he quickly trails off. “Never mind,” he says hastily. “I’ll be going, now.”

“You do that.”

Merlin is so eager to escape Gaius’ all-knowing gaze, he momentarily forgets his dread of confronting Arthur. Sprucing up quickly and efficiently, he heads downstairs.

\-----

By the time Merlin’s back at the scene of the crime, the nauseating feeling of dread has returned. Outside Arthur’s bedchamber, he shifts his weight from foot to foot in acute discomfort and it’s only when he hears a muffled crash from within (followed by bellowed expletives) that he announces his presence with two nervous raps of his fist. The scuffle quiets, followed by Arthur’s heavy footfalls that echo like an ominous countdown.

The door snatches open, the breeze of it whispering over Merlin’s face.

“Good Lord, Merlin, what have you been _doing_ all day? I’ve got a good mind to sack you again, you’ve been absolute _rubbish_ lately.”

“I, erm—“

“Have you _seen_ the state of my room? I suppose you couldn’t have, considering how I haven’t seen the likes of your idiotic arse gracing my doorway in the past _five days._ ” Arthur pulls back just enough to let Merlin squeeze by, then doggedly follows him inside. “What, afraid I’ve got the pox, or something? You’ve got no excuse skiving off, I’m fit as a fiddle—“

Merlin quickly interjects, “No, it’s nothing like that. I know you’re fit.” Arthur halts his tirade long enough to raise both his eyebrows, and Merlin feels the blood drain from his face. “I mean—I know you’re, erm. Healthy. I’m the one who’s been unwell lately, is what I’m trying to say.” The air swells with Arthur’s profound scepticism, so Merlin quickly produces a cough—an appropriately pitiful one, he’s hoping. 

Luckily, Arthur’s never been all that perceptive, and he isn’t about to begin now. He simply gives Merlin a lordly once-over before sighing, as if very put upon, “I suppose you do look a bit peaked.”

“Right,” Merlin swallows. “But I’m better now. So…you called for me?”

Arthur looks vaguely relieved to assume his usual state of haughtiness (sympathy doesn’t sit well with him). In a commanding voice, he starts, “I did call for you. There’s everything to do. You can start with my armour; it’s in a sorry state, needs a good polish. Both suits. Then there’s my sword, obviously, and all my secondary weapons…”

Merlin quickly loses interest in Arthur’s monologue. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, so he allows his attention to wander off, watching Arthur pace the room as he imperiously ticks off items on each finger.

It’s strange…Arthur looks no different than any other day, but suddenly Merlin perceives a colour to him—a vibrancy, of sorts, that manifests itself through Arthur’s carriage (straight-backed), through his eyes (clear), his mouth (expressive, and rosy)…

Merlin’s pleasant thoughts are rudely interrupted when Arthur huffily slaps him on the cheek in two quick successions.

“Oy,” Arthur says. “The _prince_. Is _speaking_. To you.” As an afterthought, he smirks and adds, “Dimwit. You do realize, you’ve just agreed to being put in the stocks wearing Morgana’s knickers and stays?”

“ _What?_ I did not.”

“You did too,” Arthur insists. 

Merlin gives him a half-lidded glare, saying, “There’s no need get snippy, _my Lord._ ” Then before Arthur can sneak in one last insult, Merlin grabs the empty hamper next to him, balances it awkwardly against his hip, and begins tracking across the room, gathering Arthur’s dirty clothes where they lie in piles on the floor or draped across furniture.

He’s about ten feet from the doorway, swiping for a pair of hose ridiculously stuck in the chandelier, when Arthur turns around to add, “Oh, and don’t forget the bed sheets.”

Merlin swallows hard.

\-----

One week later, Merlin snuffs it. It happens like this: poisoned wine, down the chute! 

That isn’t the part Merlin’s concerned with, however. What he’s interested in is how he comes back to life. Something about Arthur and some flower, some antidote—Gwen brings up jail cells and plates of food…Merlin’s still rather fuzzy on all of it. He’s been dead, after all.

Luckily, it was only a temporary state. His fever broke a few hours earlier and Merlin is downstairs now, keeping Gwen company as she does some mending by torchlight.

Merlin looks at her with a sidelong glance, then subtly rolls into her with his shoulder. “So…you kissed me.”

Gwen, the little darling, unsuccessfully tries to hide behind her hair. “Come on, Merlin, don’t pretend you didn’t know already. It isn’t cute.”

“On the contrary,” Merlin grins. “I’d like to think I’m _very_ cute.”

Gwen’s voice quickly takes on a sharp edge. “I’m serious, don’t be coy. It’s _mean,_ and I’d like to think you’re better than that.”

 _Merlin’s_ serious—he doesn’t know what she’s on about. “Gwen, I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“ _You_ know.”

“No, I don’t.”

Gwen turns evasive again, needling into Morgana’s old dress robe with renewed fervour. Merlin isn’t letting her off the hook so easily though; his stare outlasts her patience and before long, Gwen heaves a great sigh and says, “You don’t have to pretend around me. I _know_ about you. About Arthur.”

If Merlin were confused before he’s completely lost now. “We’re talking about Arthur, now? What’s he got to do with anything?”

“I _heard_ you, Merlin—“ Gwen picks up momentum, her words tumbling like rain, “You were delirious, I know, but the things you said…you were calling his _name_ out, for God’s sake. I know you don’t want anyone to know, though, so I won’t say a word.” She eyes their surroundings, sending wary looks at the lone guards and courtyard stragglers. “I won’t tell a soul. But in the meantime, don’t lead me on. It isn’t fair.”

Merlin stares at Gwen, at the way her hair curls around her delicate jaw…and inwardly shrugs. He still has no idea what she’s talking about.

\-----

Gwen watches Merlin’s face trample over with wide-eyed bewilderment, looking like Morgana used to when she got caught watching boys take a pee—totally red-handed, that is. Gwen hurriedly pulls him into a motherly embrace, cooing, “Don’t fret, Merlin. I won’t deny I find it strange and, well, a little unpalatable, but you’re my friend. I won’t turn my back on you, and neither would Arthur if he ever found out. He did save your life; that counts for something, right?”

“He—“ Merlin woodenly sits up. “He what?”

“Oh, I suppose you can’t have known—you _have_ been feverish. Arthur saved your life. Quite dashingly, too, I might add. Who knows, maybe the prince feels the same way as you do.” She smiles conspiratorially. “There have been rumours, after all. About the prince and his…well, his liberal proclivities.”

“You mean…” Merlin squints at Gwen in a way that might have been endearing, had she still been fond of him. Which she’s not, of course. “…liberal proclivities, as in politics? Or like, liberal morals.”

Gwen frowns. Is he having her on? “What I _mean_ is,” she says deadpanned, “people say that Arthur sleeps with men.” Here, Merlin’s eyes grow huge and Gwen takes the opportunity to roll her own skyward. “Honestly, Merlin. I can’t tell if you’re feigning or not, sometimes.”

“I don’t feign ignorance, if that’s what you’re getting at!” Merlin scoffs. “Can I help it if everyone in Camelot goes around talking in riddles? Where I come from, an apple’s just an apple.”

“Well, in the big city, an apple means temptation. Or a vessel for poison.” Gwen deftly ties a knot at the hem of Morgana’s old robe and snaps the thread off. It’s about time she got back, so she gathers her kit together and rises, throwing one last look over her shoulder to cheekily add, “Or as you well know, fodder for the stocks.”

The jibe is lost, however, for Merlin’s attention is miles away, his brows knitted together in concentration. It is only when Gwen’s stepped off the lower staircase that he rises with her.

“Gwen, you said…” Merlin avoids her gaze, looking uncharacteristically shy, so Gwen cocks her head in encouragement. Finally, he ventures, “You said Arthur saved my life. What did you mean by that? I only saw you and Gaius by my bedside when the fever broke.”

Gwen crosses her arms, Morgana’s robe folded in between, and explains, “After you slipped into fever, Arthur rode out into the forest to find the antidote. It was very brave; Gaius mentioned a dangerous beast that dwells there, but Arthur hardly batted an eyelash.”

Merlin balks. “He could’ve got himself killed.”

“But you would’ve died,” Gwen reasons. “You should’ve seen him—Arthur was so worried. He’ll kill me if he knew I told you, but he _was_. Even went against his father’s orders to ride out. And for all his mettle, he’s spending the night in the dungeons.”

“The dungeons?” Merlin repeats incredulously, and Gwen simply nods. 

Merlin is clearly upset, but the anger is soon replaced with embarrassment. He scratches behind his head (making his hair stick up in the back), then softly says, “I ought to thank him, shouldn’t I?”

Gwen bites her lip and watches Merlin’s face as his eyes turn soft. Oh, how her heart beats for this beautiful boy! “You should,” she gently replies. “I think he’d like that.”

Merlin just crosses his arms over his knees and rests his chin on top, too preoccupied to give a proper response. Gwen sighs, fastens her cloak round her shoulders and takes off, leaving Merlin behind to sort through his thoughts in solitude.

\-----

The next evening, Merlin gets ambushed at home.

He’s sitting in the front room, swaddled in itchy blankets and busy making faces at the foul-tasting concoction Gaius brewed for him, when someone appears in the doorway.

It’s Arthur. He lets himself in (he _would_ ). Swaggers in, really, waiting until he’s over Merlin’s shoulder to announce loudly, “Still alive, then?” 

Merlin jolts in his chair, fumbling his cup. “Um, yeah. Just about,” he blurts, spinning around and getting a face full of His Highness’ midriff. Merlin quickly reels back and tips his gaze up, when Arthur—good God, now that’s just distracting—rests a hand on the back of his chair and leans forward expectantly.

It takes Merlin a beat too long, but eventually he catches on and stutters out something that resembles a _thanks for saving my life_. It doesn’t come out the way he wants, though; he can’t think straight when the prince is _looking_ at him like that—all caring and fondness—especially in light of what he’s learned (and what he’s _seen_ ) of Arthur during the week.

The prince doesn’t seem to notice Merlin’s inner turmoil, however; he simply jeers at him with the usual amusement, but he does so in low, intimate tones that seem out of place on the normally detached prince. The transformation is complete when Arthur grins disarmingly at him, broad smile belying the soft look in his eyes.

There seems to be some more exchange of words—Merlin can’t be expected to remember. He’s still in recovery of mortal peril, after all. _No one_ should be expected to muster up coherence in such a state. But before Merlin can get himself up to speed, Arthur’s turned to leave with long, confident strides that give Merlin a narrow time frame in which he steels himself, and calls:

“Arthur—”

At the sound of his name, Arthur stops and lifts his head in query. The low sun is directly behind him, hair struck with gold and blinding for it. Arthur’s expression is shadowed and inscrutable.

Merlin clamps his hands into fists for fortitude, then says, simply, “Thank you.”

There’s a lengthy pause. Merlin’s breath sticks in his throat as he waits for Arthur to ( _finally_ ) respond, “You too...” He wavers on the edge of decision, and maybe it’s because Merlin wills him to continue, that he does. Arthur says, in a warm voice devoid of its usual mockery: “Get some rest.”

Arthur leaves the room and shuts the door, orange light closing behind him.

\-----

The next day, however, is just another day. As is the one after that, and the one after that. The sun doesn’t stop traversing the sky and the moon doesn’t stop chasing it.

Similarly, Arthur doesn’t stop being the Crown Prince, and Merlin doesn’t stop being his servant. Which is fine and all, but after the poisoning incident he sort of hoped that something between them _would_ change.

It’s a vindictively bright Monday morning. Still in bed and mostly asleep, Merlin musters up the energy to chuckle at his own expense. 

He’ll admit it; the notion that he and Arthur could ever be real friends is a bit laughable. Nobility will always be something to be revered, and peasants like himself will always be the ones to do it. There is no blurring of boundaries, not in Uther’s Camelot.

In fact, since that day Arthur’s shown nothing but cold aloofness as dictated by propriety; Merlin hardly even _sees_ Arthur anymore, who’s become as rare as a bird of paradise. Instead, Merlin spends the days completing long, odious tasks while other times, more simply, Arthur passes him over to Gaius on the grounds that the physician has more need of him—which is totally _ridiculous_ , because normally Arthur couldn’t give a rat’s arse about who needs Merlin. 

_I’m not lending you my manservant,_ he used to say, when asked by various castle officials. _Go and find one of your own. They’re quite handy, actually, when they’re not being totally incompetent._ Merlin would look affronted (as he was usually _right there_ when Arthur insulted him), and Arthur would fix his eyes forward but the sly, secretive smile that invariably crept out was always for him, and him alone.

It’s been two full weeks with none of the old jocularity and now, at the start of what promises to be a third week of dull, humourless duty, all Merlin wants to do is bury his head under his pillow and hide from the world. So he does; flops over onto his stomach and throws the lumpy thing over his head. Once properly shielded, Merlin grumbles his first word of the day, “Ugh.”

…because ‘ugh’ is how his day’s schedule looks. ‘Ugh’ is what how his days have _been._ And ‘ugh’ is how it’s going to stay unless Merlin gets the chance to save Arthur from another life-threatening situation and thus garner some _eye contact,_ at least.

Merlin sighs, then slowly removes the pillow from his head. There’s nothing to be done for it. Perhaps he’ll stir up some trouble with Gwen later, if only to quell the boredom.

\-----

It takes less than hour for Merlin to eat his words.

He’s out by the edge of the forest gathering penny buns and horse mushrooms for lunch when, with irony so palpable Merlin might never complain of boredom again, he’s suddenly bum-rushed by an enormous, winged beast. That might have been the end of it—nearly is—but Merlin manages to escape with his life intact.

It isn’t due to any heroics on his part, however. Hardly. All Merlin contributed was to fall on his arse long enough for the beast to rear up, exposing its breast in invitation for a killing blow when miraculously, that blow materializes.

Well, of sorts. What _would_ be a killing blow turns out to be more of a deterrent than anything, at the hand of someone with wild hair and a shitty sword that splinters on impact, but Merlin’s not going to complain now (or EVER AGAIN). He hasn’t got time, anyway—too busy dragging said someone back to the castle before the man’s wounds bleed out and he dies on Merlin’s shoulder without ever accepting a heartfelt thanks from a young, still-alive warlock.

\-----

The man’s name is Lancelot, and Merlin takes an interest in him immediately. The whole part where he saved Merlin’s life may or may not have something to do with it, but Merlin thinks he would’ve come to the same conclusion on his own, as Lancelot’s a likeable guy.

Across the room, Gaius staunches Lancelot’s still-bleeding wound with a clean cloth though his patient is totally out of it, weak with blood loss. All he can do is groan, sweat a bit, then groan some more in a low, gravelly rasp, only to turn his head and bare a long—did Merlin mention sweaty?—swath of gleaming neck.

Merlin swallows hard as he feels his blood pool down somewhere south of appropriate. There may be such a thing as _too_ likeable, Merlin thinks. God, the recent discovery of the “liberal proclivities’ of Camelot’s men must be affecting Merlin in the head. He spares a muttered curse for the culprit (Arthur) and then another for Arthur’s rediscovered superiority complex…then leaves the room before something embarrassing happens in front of (moaning, panting) Lancelot and (know-it-all) Gaius.

\-----

Unfortunately, nothing prevents something embarrassing from happening to Merlin the following night.

“Have you ever—“ Merlin chokes on his words, eyes widening in dismay as the rest of his sentence barrels on without him, “—been with a man before?”

The question lingers in the air, taking its time to circle about the room before sheepishly returning to Merlin in the form of a hot blush that he feels creeping up his cheeks.

“Never mind. It was a joke. Ha ha,” Merlin redacts, voice tight with fear as he nervously eyes Lancelot’s sword, menacingly heavy on the coverlet between them.

Lancelot follows his glance, his eyes landing upon his weapon. Merlin quickly swings his legs over the edge of the bed and makes to stand up. “Well, good night then, I’ll take the mattress outside—“

Lancelot grabs his wrist. “Hold on,” he says. “Stay.” Merlin obeys, dropping back down with all the grace of a wooden puppet.

He’s wondering if he’s about to get his throat sliced open, and he’s ruminating upon how annoyed Gaius will be when he discovers he has to clean up the gore left behind, when—achingly slow, and so, so deliberate—Lancelot’s thumb rubs into Merlin’s wrist, his other hand coming to rest on Merlin’s knee. It pauses only for a moment before dragging north, calloused fingers catching on the fabric covering Merlin’s outer—then inner—thigh.

“…oh,” he breathes, peering down at his lap where Lancelot cups his groin.

“Body warmth is body warmth,” Lancelot explains, his voice pitched so alluringly, it’s any wonder Merlin’s waited this long. “I’m not discriminating when it comes to whom I share my bed with.”

“Oh,” Merlin repeats, feeling a bit like an idiot. When it’s evident he’s got nothing else to contribute, Lancelot tugs on Merlin’s wrist, pulling him off-balance.

With a mortified yelp, Merlin topples into Lancelot like a basket of laundry and he’s thinking this was all a _very bad idea_ when a wet suck suddenly pinches the side of his neck and Merlin starts to think that this is, in fact, a _very good idea._ His body can only agree with enthusiasm as Lancelot’s sure, determined hands start to peel his clothes off.

Before long, Merlin’s shivering in the evening air and it all seems a bit unfair, seeing as Lancelot is still fully dressed but for the loosening of his britches, where a hard column of skin peeks out between crossed laces. But then Lancelot leans down, pressing into Merlin’s body with his own, and Merlin dazedly supposes that clothing is overrated.

\-----

They jerk each other off, Lancelot quick and sure with hands and mouth _everywhere,_ while Merlin is nervous but eager. He tries to remember what feels good on himself— _small twist at the tip, harder on the way up,_ and Lancelot responds approvingly—his hips buck when he comes, and he desperately fucks Merlin’s tight hand even as he spills onto him. Keeps fucking even as his dick grows too sensitive, and Merlin doesn’t think to let up, distracted as he is by the sight of another man’s fluids spilling over him.

He’s fairly shocked when Lancelot ducks down and traces a tongue up the twitching span of Merlin’s belly, dipping into the mess of come before lapping it up. A high-pitched noise escapes from Merlin’s throat, and he’s not ashamed to admit it because Good Lord, Lancelot’s _licking up his own come._ Cleans up quickly, too, pausing only the briefest of moments when he’s gathered the come on his tongue to let Merlin see it, thick and stringed, before it’s swallowed down.

It doesn’t take long for Merlin to get off (for obvious reasons). When it’s all over, the pair of them sticky with sweat and too tired to care, they sleep back-to-back on Merlin’s small mattress. 

It’s a tight space and they roll into each other throughout the night. Each time Lancelot sleepily jockeys for more room with light knocks of his shoulder, Merlin strangely thinks of Arthur.

\-----

Merlin wonders if he’ll feel any different now. Lancelot is…well, he’s a _man,_ for starters, and he’s Merlin’s first partner in anything beyond clumsy kisses.

He wonders if this is the part where he’s supposed to fall in love, or whatever it is girls chitter about; he waits for his heart to soften to clay, waits for the lutes to start playing in his ears at the sight of Lancelot’s silhouette in the doorway. It doesn’t happen, though, and for that Merlin’s grateful.

No, there’s nothing weird or complex between him and Lancelot. Things are easy and friendly until the very end, and when Lancelot leaves Merlin is sorry to see him go.

High up in the western tower of the castle, Merlin is thinking as such. He gazes out at the land before him, daydreaming of idle things long after Lancelot has disappeared from view. He doesn’t know how long he’s up there, but when the sound of heavy, clomping boots gives him pause, the sun is much lower in the sky.

He knows it’s Arthur. Merlin’s had months and months to attune himself to Arthur’s every movement, has learned to anticipate every need and whim (of which there are many). Yes, there is no doubt that the coming visitor is the prince, for his footfalls are even and strong and supreme in confidence.

Also, it’s pretty plain that it’s Arthur when he emerges from the tower to bark, “Merlin.”

A month ago, Merlin might have been startled by the sharp tone of voice, but at this point it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Merlin merely cocks his ear, barely lifting his head from the sconce of his arms.

Arthur sighs noisily and surges forward to the sound of metallic clinks and hard squeaks of leather. Merlin straightens up and turns around.

“My Lord?” He keeps his voice deferential for fear of provoking Arthur, who always seems to be in a foul mood these days. 

It appears today is no different. Arthur angrily quips, “Lancelot is gone, Merlin. Stop pining and get back downstairs—I need you to ready my steed for Friday’s hunt.”

“Yes, of course.” Merlin keeps his eyes politely lowered, manoeuvring around Arthur as best he can, but it’s difficult…or rather, Arthur’s _making_ it difficult. Merlin takes a step to the left, and Arthur quickly blocks him with his arm. Same goes for the other side. A silly, stupid dance ensues between the two of them, until finally Merlin feels his patience drop away like a sack of stones. 

He jerks his head up and snaps, “ _Excuse me._ ” His tone is insolent and it’s likely to get him tossed out of Camelot on his arse like he should’ve the day he and Arthur met, but honestly? Merlin is kind of over this. 

A trapped look comes over Arthur’s face as he appears to realize what he’d been doing, small frown accompanying it. Normally Merlin would seek to smooth the crease from Arthur’s brow, but instead he just wants to punch his teeth straight. 

Arthur doesn’t deserve sympathy right now. He’s acting like a spoilt child—irrational and haughty. Has been for _weeks_ and with absolutely no discernable reason.

When it doesn’t look like Arthur’s going to say anything, his face remaining conflicted, Merlin makes to get past Arthur but he’s rebuffed once more as Arthur automatically stops him with a hand. 

“What are you _doing?_ ” Merlin asks in exasperation.

Arthur tenses noticeably and says sharply, “I have no need to explain my actions to you.”

“Okay…” Merlin replies, not bothering to understand what Arthur is even _talking about._ His hands go up in surrender as he says, “Sure. Fine. Just let me by already, I’ve got your mount to prepare.”

“I’m not moving.” Arthur crosses his arms like he’s trying to be intimidating. Merlin feels his annoyance rise even further.

“WHY NOT?” 

“BECAUSE I DON’T WANT TO,” Arthur matches.

He’s glaring into Merlin’s face, uncomfortably close. Their boots are touching at the tips and when Merlin tries to step back, his heel hits against the low, crenellated wall of the tower. Merlin makes one last ditch effort to sidestep the prince but as expected, he’s shut down by the fall of Arthur’s arms which bracket him in.

Diplomacy it is, then. “Arthur. _Sire_. Forgive me for saying so—“ Merlin pointedly ignores Arthur’s raised eyebrows. “—but you’re being unreasonable. Whatever it is that’s got you all…” In a tizzy? Acting like a little bitch? “…upset. Whatever it is, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but you’re taking it out on me.”

Arthur blinks at him wordlessly. 

“You’ve been doing it for weeks,” Merlin tries, but still no reaction. Finally, giving up all pretence, Merlin says point-blank: “Stop blaming me for your problems.”

It does the trick. A little too well, perhaps—Arthur lifts a hand from the stone wall behind them and tangles it into Merlin’s shirt, jerking him forward so he can properly sneer, “God, Merlin. You’ve got to be the dimmest creature that ever walked these castle walls. You’ve got no idea about _anything_.“ He’s talking low and threateningly, voice nearly lost to the sound of whipping flags that lash about nearby. Merlin hears him though, hears just fine as Arthur enunciates: “I _can_ blame you for my problems, and trust me, I do because they’re entirely your fault.”

“What did I DO? If I’m such a problem, why don’t you just sack me and get it over with?”

The words fly out of his mouth before Merlin even realizes what he’s saying, and if he could snatch them back he would. He _feels_ Arthur flinch—they’re close enough that Merlin can feel everything, can feel the stiffening of Arthur’s arms against his own and hear Arthur’s curt intake of breath.

Before he can apologize, though, Arthur shoves forward and Merlin has to bend backwards over the low wall just to keep their faces apart.

“You have _no idea,_ do you?” Arthur repeats.

He leans into Merlin with the weight of his body and Merlin gasps lightly, his spine scraping against stone, his head turning to look…

…which turns out to be a very bad idea. “Fuck,” Merlin swears.

Between the crenellations of the tower, the ground looks miles away. The castle’s drawbridge is but a small wafer from these heights, the people tiny as ants. Arthur’s body is a heavy upon his and Merlin squeezes his eyes shut to wonder how he ever got into this mess at all.


	2. Chapter 2

It starts the night after they kill the afanc.

Far below the castle walls, where the water’s been poisoned and the beast lurks in the shadows, they destroy the bugger—Morgana brave with a sword and Merlin a passable torch-bearer. That evening they kill the afanc, and that night Arthur’s dreams begin. They’re strange dreams, full of whispers and smoke, red flames licking underground ceilings and always, in the midst of it all, Merlin behind the inferno with his eyes glowing gold. 

The morning after, Arthur wakes up hard (as usual) and muttering Merlin’s name under his breath (not so usual). This happens six days in a row—six nights of golden fires and six mornings of Arthur bringing himself off in bed, eyes screwed tight and his mind even tighter against the cloying vestiges of his recurring dreams.

After six days of this nonsense with no end in sight, Arthur decides to do something about it.

That afternoon he picks up a fellow knight. It won’t be the first time…granted, it’s only his second time, but it’s still as easy as anything to lure someone into his bed. Who would dare deny the Crown Prince anything?

The knight’s name is Owain. He’s young, fit, and perfectly willing. The fact of his gender (male… _very_ male) doesn’t bother Arthur at all; sleeping with men is simply practical. While the sweet scent of a woman’s perfumed skin stirs his loins, as it does for any red-blooded young man, Arthur’s heard too many horror stories about illegitimate children and dangerous, jealous women to ever dip his stick in that particular pool. _For Camelot,_ Arthur affirms.

After a session of hard training with the knights, this is how Arthur finds himself leading a fidgeting Sir Owain into his inner chambers.

“Not a bad haunt,” Owain says when they get in, his head swirling about to take in his surroundings. Spotting the bear rug on the floor, he points at it with the tip of his scabbard. “I remember that.” 

It was Arthur’s prized kill, from two summers ago. “I remember it too. You tried to solicit me that night, with Tristan and Breunor just across the stream,” he says conversationally.

Owain gives an embarrassed chuckle. Though self-assured—Arthur wouldn’t have chosen him if he were a snivelling lout—Owain looks all too rueful as he scratches the back of his head, admitting, “Yes, there was that.”

“Indeed,” Arthur agrees, sidling closer.

Owain looks up and asks, “So…what made you change your mind?”

Owain’s a good-looking man. His close-cropped hair accentuates his masculinity (unlike Merlin’s dark curls, which only accentuates how he’s ten times the girl Morgana will ever be), and Owain’s eyes are vivid green. Furthermore, said eyes _don’t_ follow Arthur into his dreams, which is all the convincing he needs at this point.

Arthur grabs Owain and presses his mouth against his. It really is that simple.

They shed their armour, greaves and breastplates dropped with a resounding clatter while the chainmail they wear slithers off in heavy heaps. There’s no need to rush—they’ve got all afternoon—but Arthur’s impatient and he undresses Owain quickly, pushing him towards the bed even as he pulls his own clothes off.

Owain isn’t complaining. Though calm and steady by day, it appears he stores his passion for times like this; suddenly, Owain is wild, eager to spread his legs and arch wantonly at every touch Arthur will grant.

Arthur smiles to see how his plan is unfolding, neatly and accordingly. Even if fucking Owain doesn’t distract him from his stupid dreams about his stupid manservant, it’ll at least provide a pretty visual during his morning wank.

“Arthur!” Owain moans, drawing attention himself—he’s got one knee up to his chest as he works a spit-wetted finger into himself. Arthur feels his dick twitch.

“Wait, stop,” he orders, rolling over the mattress to the other side. From his bedside drawer, Arthur plucks out a vial of rosewood oil, meant for soothing muscles. It’s a good thing he’s got it handy; it makes everything easier, and infinitely more fun.

Before long, Arthur’s got two fingers inside Owain and being begged for a third. Yet he ignores him and withdraws his hand—Arthur’s got more pressing matters to address (namely, himself).

Arthur slicks himself with a handful of oil, jerking purposefully and fast. Thumb pressing down at the head, he leans forward and guides the tip of his dick to Owain’s entrance. Works himself in with rocking thrusts to the sound of Owain’s soft, pained grunts as they stick-slide together.

When he bottoms out, Arthur breathlessly asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah—yeah, I’m good.” Owain takes a deep breath and pushes back experimentally. A wince accompanies it, but whether he actually wants more or is just loath to back out, Owain says bravely, “Go on. Move.”

 _Finally,_ Arthur thinks. He leans back in his seat and throws Owain’s legs up, holding them behind the joints of his knees so he can drive back in without obstacle. From here on, it’s just Owain’s tight heat and Arthur gets to relax, gets to lose himself in a good, mindless fuck.

Just when he’s starting to get into it, Owain loose and greedy and mewling like a hungry kitten, the door opens with a small creak.

Arthur slows his pace (to the protestations of Owain) and glances up, catching sight of the intruder in his vanity mirror—

_Merlin._

Reflected in glass, image blurry but discernable, is Merlin. He’s holding an armful of supplies but he’s staring straight at the bed (straight at _Arthur_ ).

Well, shit. What a picture he must make. The prince of Camelot, balls-deep in another knight’s arse. _Fuck,_ Arthur inwardly groans, his every nerve screaming to leap off Owain and clutch for the sheets. He stuffs down the panic, however, and focuses instead on how this is no time to overreact and make a fool of himself. A prince must always act with dignity—this includes when he’s (literally) been caught with his trousers down.

 _It’s only a tumble. No big deal,_ he tells himself. _Just make it look good, and the rest will take care of itself._

So he does. Owain feels it too, the moment Arthur snaps into himself. He’s on a mission now, he’s got something to _prove,_ so Arthur braces himself against Owain’s flung-out legs, fucks down once, _hard,_ and makes the retreat something to be remembered.

His dick feels like it’s getting squeezed of all blood, the way Owain’s arse clings to him on the way out. Owain’s surprised trumpet of noise makes Arthur smirk in triumph, and the tiny gasp he hears across the room—he’d been waiting for it, waiting for some acknowledgement Merlin was still there, still watching—Merlin’s choked gasp slaps a huge grin on his face.

Owain, utterly oblivious to their new audience, continues to bray in a truly inspired fashion with Arthur’s name featuring prominently alongside “oh God”s and “you’re _huge._ ” Arthur couldn’t have planned it better himself, and it’s with great magnanimity that he finishes up, flooding Owain with his come to the tune of Merlin’s fading footfalls. He relishes the moment until all he can hear is the ringing in his ears, then collapses onto his elbows and presses his face to the side of Owain’s damp neck, breathing heavily.

A single thought comes to him, slowly: _Merlin, you sly dog._

For under normal circumstance, servants are to politely and _speedily_ remove themselves from the premises when catching their masters in the middle of a quick shag. Merlin, on the other hand, had stood there…for ages. Just _watching._ What in God’s name passed through that incomprehensible mind, Arthur can only wonder.

He hopes Merlin was shocked. Hopes he doesn’t forget this anytime soon, that the image is burned into his eyelids, as Merlin is Arthur’s.

“My Lord?”

“Oh right,” Arthur says, glancing down at Owain’s rigid, trembling prick, which he’s nearly forgotten. It only needs a few, good jerks before Owain is coming spectacularly, and by the end of it all, Arthur’s feeling pretty damned good about himself.

\-----

The rest of the night is less successful.

Apparently, he can’t just fuck away his disturbing dreams. It’s been made worse, even—the sex part sticks, only it isn’t Owain he’s fucking anymore. It’s his stupid, sodding _manservant_ spreading himself wide, panting Arthur’s name like it’ll put out fires. In the dream, Merlin cries not ‘sire’, not ‘lord’, but…

 _Arthur…faster! Go faster—oh_ god, Arthur—

“Bloody hell,” Arthur grumbles, wiping himself down with a towel (because he _came in his sleep_ like a bloody _twelve-year-old_ ).

\-----

It ought to come as a relief then, that Merlin vanishes off the face of Albion. But it isn’t.

Not only is Arthur having sex on a nightly basis (in his head) with someone his father believes to be _mentally retarded,_ Merlin’s disappearance is fucking with him during the day as well.

Seriously, it’s been like, a _week_ since he’s been by Arthur’s chambers. A lesser man (well, someone Arthur doesn’t owe his life once or twice over) would’ve been sacked ages ago, but he couldn’t even sack Merlin if he wanted because he’s NOWHERE TO BE FOUND.

Arthur curses something distinctly un-princely, balls up the sleeping hose he’s just taken off and launches it as far as he can, childishly pleased when it snags on the (thankfully unlit) chandelier. Merlin’s going to have to strain himself to get that one.

Serves him right, this is getting ridiculous. And just for the record, Arthur isn’t upset because he misses having Merlin around to make fun of. He’d never miss the way Merlin treats him like some equal whom he can tease (Arthur is never to be _teased_ ), instead of the employer who could have him executed (which he totally would). No, it’s got nothing to do with Merlin…it’s the principle of the matter.

The matter being that Arthur is PRINCE OF CAMELOT and Merlin is a STUPID PEON WHO WON’T SHOW UP FOR WORK.

Arthur’s going to have to remedy that. It won’t be hard, he’ll simply go straight to Gaius and get him to pry that lazy sod out of bed.

\-----

A short while later, Arthur finds Gaius at his lab, puttering about with liquids and herbs. Arthur quickly lets him know that his charge is a terrible excuse for a manservant and that he, the _prince_ (if anyone _cares_ anymore), requires his presence immediately.

Arthur has half a mind to charge inside and bang on the bedroom door just to make his point—normally would, in fact, but something about greeting a slow-blinking, drowsy Merlin makes his stomach roll.

After all, the dreams have in no way ceased (they’re getting _worse,_ actually) and it’s affecting him in ways Arthur refuses to acknowledge. Easier just to avoid a treacherous situation altogether, and so he spins around and heads back the way he came.

\-----

_The night after they kill the afanc, Merlin follows Arthur back to his chambers._

“Your wound, sire.”

Arthur looks down at his arm and watches his sleeve tear open before his very eyes. A clean, invisible slice follows, cutting into the meat of his bicep until a string of beaded blood wells to the surface.

“Right…” Arthur says uncertainly.

Merlin lowers his eyes. “Your shirt. I can’t dress the wound like that.”

Arthur complies, removing his outer tunic, and tosses it over the back of a chair as he heads towards the bed. Merlin follows obediently, choosing to remain silent as Arthur flops onto his mattress and looks up expectantly.

Merlin says: “Your inner shirt as well.”

So, off it goes. Arthur pulls the body-warmed linen over his head and throws it aside.

What happens next should tip him off, should alert Arthur that this isn’t _natural,_ but he can’t think straight when Merlin’s clambering into his lap like a heavy, bony child wanting a bedtime story. There’s nothing childlike about what Merlin does next, however; he brings his mouth down to the cut on Arthur’s inner bicep and tantalizingly holds it there. Warm puffs of breath ghost over Arthur’s skin, drawing up goose bumps until Merlin extends his tongue and delicately drags it over the line of beaded blood.

Merlin pulls back and appears to savour the taste, eyes probing as they regard Arthur with feral heat. 

Eyes normally an insignificant blue, hidden under dark fringe and dark lashes, Arthur likes the way they suddenly sharpen up close: shards of hazel break up the colour like metal in water and it should be cold, should be calculating, but instead it’s _searing_ like Merlin’s gaze will ignite whatever it lands upon.

In this case it’s Arthur, and he’s hardly immune. When Merlin repeats, “Your wound, sire,” Arthur can’t help but tip his head back and groan. This time, he feels instead of sees the new wound develop; it arcs across the muscle connecting his thigh to his groin in a clean whip of heat, the rip of fabric sounding like an afterthought.

Arthur needs no instruction this time, he knows what needs to be done. His hips scramble up as he pushes his clothing down, revealing the cut (and then some) in all its vulnerability—does so without the slightest hesitation, because it’s _Merlin_ he bares himself to, it’s just _Merlin_ seeing him like this.

“Merlin, _please._ “

Arthur catches a fleeting glimpse of a feline smile, Merlin’s mouth curled up at the corners, before the view’s obscured—Merlin ducks his head down and concentrates on dragging the rest of Arthur’s trousers off, yanking loose one leg at a time until the offending garment is bunched up and forgotten on the dusty floor.

“Arthur,” Merlin says against the soft skin of Arthur’s thigh. _Arthur,_ Merlin mouths against the soft skin of Arthur’s groin.

\-----

“Arthur,” Merlin says, his voice muted.

Arthur groans, burrowing his head between two pillows.

“ _Arthur,_ ” the infernal voice comes again, and it’s louder this time. Clearer, too. “C’mon, get up.”

A heavy weight comes down one side of the mattress and the pillow covering Arthur’s face is rudely snatched off. Arthur scrunches his eyes shut against the sunlight that bleeds through his eyelids in a wash of pink, but it’s too bright to counter and he isn’t getting his pillow back no matter how insistently he gropes at the air.

Finally, reluctantly, he cracks an eye open. Merlin’s face swims into view, pinched like a worried nursemaid’s and far too close for comfort.

Before Arthur can squeeze his eyes back shut and duck under the covers, Merlin makes a grab at him and God damn it, he’s trying to get some _sleep_ here but Merlin’s pesky hands are tight on his shoulders, clinging on and shaking him awake.

“Come _on,_ ” Merlin prods, leaning over so he can employ his favourite method of rousing Arthur: two thumbs on either of Arthur’s eyelids, Merlin pries them up in an effective (and thoroughly _annoying_ ) manner.

When Arthur’s vision focuses, he realizes he’s staring into the very eyes he’d been dreaming of just moments ago. Merlin’s limbs are draped all over him, elbows tight against Arthur’s ribs and digging into the mattress for leverage, his cool hands still on Arthur’s face with his thumbs light on Arthur’s brow. The rest of him is a solid weight, unwittingly pressed against Arthur’s morning erection.

Merlin chuckles, belly vibrating against Arthur’s decidedly interested cock, though (thank GOD) Merlin doesn’t seem to notice. He just says, “There you are. Now keep them up, we’ve got to get you dressed—“

Arthur jerks away like he’s been burned, shoulder blades hitting the flat surface of the headboard with bruising force.

“God, Merlin, most servants just _knock on the door_ and leave it at that,” Arthur complains, his voice thick with sleep.

“I did,” Merlin replies timidly. “You weren’t waking up. But you have that meeting with the stable master at noon, so I let myself in—“

“Well let yourself back _out,_ ” Arthur snaps, still hyper aware of his hard on (for the person _sitting on his bed_ ). “I mean it, Merlin, get _out._ ”

“But I still need to bring up breakfast—“

“Are you _deaf?_ Leave, and don’t bother coming back for the day. I could use the peace and quiet.”

The wounded look Merlin gives him brings a twinge of guilt, but once left to his privacy (and his own right hand), Arthur doesn’t think about much at all, just curls into the indent left by his servant and defiantly sticks his head back under the pillow as he works himself to orgasm.

\-----

Later on that day:

“Where _is_ the dolt?”

“You gave him the day off. What, did you expect him to hang around on the off chance you’ll throw some chores and insults his way?” Morgana fixes a withering look on him. “He’s probably hiding from you.”

Morgana is a bright girl. And Merlin is the worst manservant he’s ever had.

She continues, “Besides, I’m the one who told him to make himself scarce. I knew you’d come stomping around, demanding him back so he could hold your hand while you take a piss.”

Arthur decides he doesn’t like bright girls very much.

\-----

Since his father refuses to let Arthur sound the alarms or put a bounty on Merlin’s head for the day, Arthur’s resorted to searching his manservant out the old-fashioned way: on foot.

Sure, he knows the castle like the back of his hand—he’s grown up here, jumped puddles in all the uneven alleys, explored every last staircase, and named every stone creature that adorns the walls. Nonetheless, it takes a _lifetime_ to find every nook and cranny in the castle. Attempting such a stroll in the span of one afternoon is totally ludicrous…

…which is why Arthur decides to seek Gaius out instead. In the bustling courtyard where the market is taking place, Arthur asks the fishmonger if he’s seen the physician. A pointed finger leads him to the Anglide’s.

Inside, Gaius is speaking with the parents of young Sarah Anglide, who is covered in hives and crying non-stop. Arthur stays in the doorway. 

“Excuse me,” he calls imperiously. “This is the prince. I need to borrow the court physician for a moment.”

Gaius materializes. “Your Highness. May I help you with something?”

“Indeed. I’m—“

An ear-piercing shriek comes from the back room and Arthur falters.

Gaius leans in to make himself heard above the little girl’s screaming: “Try the western tower, above our quarters. He likes it up there.”

Arthur is more than happy to leave the young banshee behind him, and so it’s with a slight bounce in his step that he makes his way back through the market and towards the castle.

\-----

Arthur takes the winding staircase up the tower, and by the time he’s reached the top he’s dizzy from the endless climb. Outside in the blinding light of day, the air tastes sweet and Arthur sucks it in greedily. 

Merlin is exactly where Gaius said he’d be. Arthur spies him right away, lying on the floor like some countryside yokel. Granted, the sun-bathed stone is probably warm at his back compared to the brisk temperature bestowed by the tail-end of winter. Either way, Merlin looks comfortable with his hands folded under his head and legs stretched out before him. 

Striding over until he’s standing directly above Merlin—whose eyes are closed as he remains unaware of Arthur’s presence—Arthur silently mulls over the Very Important Question of how best to approach (and startle) his manservant.

 _A flick to the ear?_ Arthur considers, for Merlin does have ridiculous ears that beg for abuse. _No, too obvious._ Arthur bends over for a better look, then gets down on his hands to study Merlin’s face upside-down.

Merlin’s eyes are closed and his face is relaxed. Blissful, even. There’s a small smile playing over his lips and it makes Arthur wonder what he’s thinking about.

Arthur lets his elbows buckle as he brings their faces closer together.

Maybe Merlin’s thinking about his village—his family, perhaps, or something simpler like a favourite food or game he’d play back home. Arthur doesn’t really know what peasants do for fun but whatever it is, Merlin looks more content than Arthur can ever remember seeing.

Soon, a small sound filters into the air, only to be carried away by the wind. When it picks up again, however, it’s louder and more obviously coming from Merlin.

Arthur looks down. Merlin is…well, he’s humming. He’s humming to himself—and now he’s singing under his breath, snatches of melody and words making their way into Arthur’s ears. The whole thing is rather mesmerizing. 

And, Arthur realizes with a start, rather voyeuristic.

Though all he has to do to announce his presence is clear his throat, Arthur suddenly feels guilty all the same. This is probably a very private place for Merlin; this high up, with only wind and sky and stone for company, the rest of the castle feels like a world apart. He shouldn’t be here uninvited.

Arthur moves closer, purses his lips together and blows a steady, lingering stream of air over Merlin’s face.

It does the job. Merlin jerks his head a bit, eyebrows tightening, and Arthur quickly pulls back and waits to get noticed.

Dark lashes flutter, then slowly lift to reveal a set of eyes bluer than the sky reflected in them. Arthur sits there, feeling awkward as Merlin blithely smiles at him.

“Arthur,” Merlin says easily, like he knew he had company all along. “What are you doing up here?”

“I was just passing by,” Arthur says glibly, and it’s an obvious lie. No one uses the western tower for anything. “So this is what you do during your free time…” Arthur squints up at the sky. “Absolutely nothing?”

“I wasn’t doing _nothing._ ” Merlin protests. “I was cloud-watching,” he explains, as if it’s a perfectly suitable answer.

“Cloud-watching?” Arthur repeats dryly. “You’re a simple man, Merlin. A very, very _simple_ man.”

Merlin laughs, Arthur lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you never cloud-watch,” Merlin says teasingly.

Arthur looks at him very seriously. “I never cloud-watch.”

“You’re missing out then.”

“I don’t have _time_ for inane things like staring at fixed spots for hours.” Arthur scoffs. “I’m a very busy man.”

“Yet you have time to search for a stray manservant…”

“Hardly!” Arthur yells, deeply affronted. He’s a _prince_ —Arthur would do no such thing. “You’re just lucky the Duke of Casain and his men got sidetracked with bandits this morning. Even still, you’ve completely botched my schedule. The stable master requested a whole slew of things that need to be ordered—”

“Did he finally ask for that rig he obviously wants? God, I get nervous every time he’s around the new filly, the way he looks at her.”

Arthur snorts despite himself. God, that’s _sick._ “A whole slew of _tack,_ you filthy-minded boor.”

“ _I’m_ a boor?”

“The point _is,_ ” Arthur says. “You’re ruining my schedule. I was forced to pass off all the orders to the stable boy.”

“That’s his _job,_ sire,” Merlin counters, saying “sire” like he’s saying “stupid”.

“It’s his job if I _say_ it’s his job,” Arthur sniffs, and he’s about to add more when his mouth suddenly goes dry…

Merlin’s face has been taken hostage by brazen affection; his white teeth gleam in the sun and his eyes have gone dark with mirth. He’s looking at Arthur like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing, and it’s disarming, it’s _playing dirty._ How is Arthur supposed to keep the upper hand when Merlin is looking at him like that?

“So you’ve got your stable boy at the saddler’s,” Merlin says conversationally, “and Casain won’t be in until nightfall. That sounds like free time to me.”

Arthur opens his mouth to argue…well…

Merlin’s grin widens. Arthur closes his mouth. Then fiercely says, “No thanks to _you._ ”

Merlin’s laugh is raucous and real, and it makes Arthur feel warm all over.

He’s got appearances to keep, however; Arthur huffs loudly, then hunkers down next to Merlin and pointedly ignores the victorious “ha!”

“This doesn’t mean I’m not a busy man,” Arthur argues, just for good measure. 

Merlin nods back agreeably. “I know. Never said you weren’t.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon watching the clouds drift by overhead.

\-----

Less than one week passes before Merlin goes and gets himself killed. Or attempts to, at least (what sort of person _knowingly_ drinks POISON?).

Arthur gets out of the dungeons earlier than expected and heads straightaway for the physician’s quarters. It’s a waste of time, though; at the door, Guinevere tells him Merlin is asleep, and for all her apologetic bluster, she would _not budge,_ citing Gaius’ express orders not allow any visitors.

As if Arthur’s just a _visitor._

Still, he has no choice but to return to his bedchambers.

“A little appreciation wouldn’t go amiss,” he says aloud to the empty room.

\-----

That night, Arthur dreams he’s in bed with Merlin.

For once, they aren’t doing anything promiscuous, they’re just…lying there. Arthur can see himself, curled protectively around Merlin who’s either asleep or just dozing.

Arthur noses at the back of Merlin’s neck, where black hair meets fine, baby-soft down. Merlin smells sweet, like a girl (which is hardly surprising), and underneath Arthur’s splayed palm, Merlin’s heartbeat is steady and strong.

\-----

When Arthur finally gets the chance to see the fruit of his labours, it comes in the form of a small cocoon of blankets.

“Thank you,” Merlin says from the cocoon, where only his head pokes out. His skin is wan and he looks like he’s going to faint with every word that comes from his mouth, but the point is, Merlin’s _alive._

Alive, and so damned _earnest_ about thanking him, Arthur wants to mock him or crack a joke, or something—anything to diffuse the weight in the air. But maybe because of it—(or maybe because Merlin is staring at him with huge, insecure eyes that make him feel gooey inside)—Arthur’s at a loss. He’s just standing by the door, not saying anything.

It’s not on purpose; Arthur’s just feeling overwhelmed. He wants very badly to convey his own gratitude. It was, after all, _Merlin_ who saved his life first, but he can’t, for the _life_ of him, find the appropriate words.

As the seconds tick by, Merlin starts to look like he regrets saying anything at all; his mouth thins and his eyebrows knit together, so Arthur finally sighs, “Get some rest.”

Then, just like that—Merlin smiles, his grin reaching from ear to ear.

The warmth hits Arthur like a ton of bricks. He blinks stupidly, trying to shake Merlin’s expression from his sight, but he may as well be trying to blink away colour. 

Standing there, something dangerous coils up in Arthur’s belly like a tendril of smoke from a flint, and the longer he stays the more it threatens to ignite. And while he seldom backs down from a fight, Arthur knows when he’s playing with fire.

So, he turns to leave.

When the door is firmly braced against his back, only then does Arthur let the heat dissipate, feeling it spread over his skin until he’s tingling down to his fingertips and toes.

It occurs to him, then, in the orange glow of sunset outside the physician’s quarters: Arthur is in over his head. 

He’d defied his father; he’d charged into the forest to battle cockatrices and sorceresses, putting Camelot at risk just to save the one life. If Arthur’s behaviour reveals anything, it’s that Merlin’s become a liability to him. A liability to _Camelot._

Arthur drops his head back against the shut door with a soft _thunk._

This has to end.


	3. Chapter 3

High above Camelot, on the tippy-top of the castle’s western tower, Merlin is sandwiched between Arthur and a stone ledge that abruptly drops away to certain death.

“Arthur,” Merlin nervously pleads.

It falls on deaf ears; the prince makes no movement to let up, only lowers his gaze to the movement of Merlin’s Adam’s apple as it bobs up and down. Suddenly, Arthur’s blue eyes dart aside, honing in on something like a hound catching scent.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks again, but again the prince pays no heed, only moves his face towards the vicinity of Merlin’s neck and makes a discontented noise. “Let me up,” Merlin tries.

“There’s a bruise on your neck.”

_What?_

“It’s a lovebite,” Arthur continues, his voice darkening.

 _Oh._ Must’ve been a parting gift from Lancelot…Merlin swallows convulsively when Arthur narrows his eyes, ducks his head down and…oh _shit_ —Arthur puts his mouth on Merlin’s skin. Presumably where the lovebite is.

Merlin gasps.

Arthur’s mouth is wet and warm, and it doesn’t feel like much until he sucks in a mouthful of bruised flesh and drags his teeth down over it, none-too-gently.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Merlin warbles. “ _Arthur._ What are you—ah—“

At length, Arthur lets go with a loud, slick noise and the patch of skin immediately turns cold from the draft. Merlin reaches up, aiming to wipe off the chilled moisture with the hem of his sleeve, but Arthur’s palm closes over the spot first, guarding it.

“It was Lancelot, wasn’t it?” Arthur asks, and his other hand comes down to rest on the other side of Merlin’s neck. Though Arthur’s voice remains steady—conversational, almost—it’s belied by the hint of a sneer that’s snuck up on his face.

“How did you …” Merlin trails off as Arthur tracks his thumbs down the uneven terrain of Merlin’s throat, pressing in with more force than Merlin is strictly comfortable with.

Arthur chuckles, but it doesn’t sound particularly friendly. “As if you two were being subtle, Merlin.”

\-----

It was sickening—Lancelot and Merlin, that is. At the celebration, Merlin had spent the entire evening mooning at Lancelot with the distinct air of a besotted chambermaid, and Lancelot was no better. Despite Arthur’s best efforts to keep him distracted, Lancelot would float back to Merlin like a sodding magnet every chance he got.

“As if you two were being subtle, Merlin,” Arthur says.

On top of the shared bedroom eyes and intimate laughter, the two of them had _left together._ Plain as day, with no discretion whatsoever. For God’s sake, Lancelot had just been knighted a few hours prior, and the first thing he went and did was dishonour the royal name by taking a lowly, _male_ servant (who happens to belong to _Arthur_ ) to bed with him.

Arthur growls at the thought. “Only me,” he says in a low voice, touching the hateful bruise on Merlin’s neck. It helps only marginally that the skin is darker now, freshly purpled and pink at the edges from Arthur’s own claim superimposed on it. “You only ever pulled those kind of stunts for me. But it doesn’t even count, I’m your _prince_ —you’re _required_ to help me. To cover for me. Drink poison, risk your neck, flout the rules for me—“

“I don’t do those things because I’m _required—_ “

“But Lancelot. You lied for him. You _lied to me._ Did it at the drop of a hat, and he isn’t even _noble._ ”

Merlin frowns, gets that look on his face before he’s about to open his trap and voice something rude. “As if bloodlines matter,” Merlin argues, right on cue. “All _I_ care is that Lance is noble at heart.”

“Oh, so he’s ‘Lance’, now?” With renewed vigour, Arthur shoulders forward and lays Merlin flat on his back against the ledge—stretches himself out until he’s snug between Merlin’s legs and pressing down with all his weight.

“Arthur…” Merlin says. “This isn’t like you. You’re a prat, but you aren’t a _prick._ So will you just tell me what this is really about?” 

He sounds breathless, and furthermore Arthur can _feel_ it—Merlin’s chest hitches against his own, quick tattoo like a rabbit’s heart, and while this may be because Arthur’s smushing his lungs…Arthur secretly hopes it’s something else.

It’s those damned dreams—the start to this whole fucking mess. Arthur can’t even _look_ at his idiot servant anymore without thinking about ink-black nights, about sweetly-pressed kisses against less innocent places.

“Arthur?”

Hearing his name, Arthur refocuses. Their faces are nearly touching, and Merlin looks tousled and wild-eyed.

It does something to him. His stomach slowly flips over and with it, Arthur feels the anger—the _jealousy,_ if he’s being entirely honest with himself—recede. He briefly lowers his head to steel himself, then brings it back up. “It’s you, Merlin,” he admits. “It’s about you.”

Merlin blinks owlishly.

“It’s about how you’re rubbish at getting out grass stains.” Arthur shifts his weight and his hips knock against the inside of Merlin’s thighs, which fall open like a sigh. Arthur does his best to ignore it and gamely rambles on, “You’re a crap servant, always late and never sorry.”

“And this has to do with…?”

“ _Everything,_ you dimwit. You just—you do whatever the fuck you want and it, it isn’t _done._ But you do it anyway, and I can’t help but pay attention. Notice.” Arthur clears his throat. “Notice you.”

Merlin scrunches his face in confusion, but he might have a point. Arthur has ears—he can _hear_ how daft he sounds.

So he tries again. Bites his lip, then says, significantly, “I… _notice_ you.”

Merlin’s brow stays furrowed, mouth opening quickly and Arthur can practically hear the _‘what does that even mean?’,_ when—in what would be a comical turn of events if Arthur didn’t feel so wretched—Merlin keeps gaping. His forehead raises, his blue eyes widen to the size of plates, and eventually he emits a faint _‘oh’._

“Yeah,” Arthur mimics tightly. “ _Oh._ ”

“So that’s why—the whole Lancelot thing—“ Merlin frowns in concentration, chewing on his lower lip as he works everything out in his head and Arthur simply watches, feeling control of the situation slip clean from his grasp like a sword out of sweaty palms. “And the lovebite…you _kissed_ me,” Merlin concludes.

“That wasn’t a kiss,” Arthur grumps.

“Okay, so you sucked on me—“ Arthur pales, and Merlin rolls his eyes. “Well, you _did._ ”

“We are _not_ talking about this!”

“Right. Because that was working out _so well_ for you,” Merlin shoots back, and his disobedience is even more appalling than usual because anyone with even a _modicum_ of self-preservation would be more worried about being pushed into the castle moat than arguing a point.

“What I still don’t get…” Merlin says thoughtfully, “is that you’ve been such a terror these last few weeks.”

“I haven’t been a _terror._ ”

Merlin gives him a Look. “Well, if what you’re implying is true, you’re supposed to be _nice_ to me. Bringing me flowers, or—or serenading me under my window, I don’t know. Not yelling at me over piddling things, at any rate.”

Oh, what Arthur would give to have the ground swallow him up right now. He drops his head onto Merlin’s shoulder. “You _idiot,_ ” he says wearily. “I’m not going to _court you_ ; you aren’t a _girl._ I can’t just take you as a mistress and be done with it.”

“You’re the prince,” Merlin states. “You can do whatever you want.”

Arthur jerks up, searching Merlin’s face for the exact meaning behind those level words, but Merlin’s face is tightly shuttered. “If you’re insinuating that I could force you into my bed…” Arthur says slowly. “God, Merlin. I would never do that.”

“Right.” Merlin’s eyes slide sideways.

“Unless…”

Merlin’s attention snaps back to Arthur’s face. Eyes huge and vulnerable, that look normally makes Merlin resemble a village idiot but when they’re fixed so completely on Arthur, he can’t help but feel his chest flood with want.

He wants to wipe that nervous look from Merlin’s face, wants Merlin’s eyelids to flutter shut so they can quit staring at each other and just be honest—their bodies as words, with no jumbled speech or veiled expressions to get in the way.

Arthur wants…lord, it’s revolting to admit as such, but he wants to be _honest_ to Merlin—wants to take Merlin home and keep him all to himself. His manservant would undoubtedly make for a feisty lover, but he’d be _his,_ wholly and completely.

Merlin swallows hard, the sound loud in Arthur’s ear. He tips his eyes up; Merlin looks petrified.

“…never mind,” Arthur says resignedly. “Stop looking at me like that. I already said I wouldn’t force you into…anything like _that._ ”

“But—“

“It won’t happen again,” Arthur states, his voice clipped and business-like. “I’ll stop taking my…personal matters out on you, and by tomorrow we can forget we ever had this conversation.”

So, that’s that. Arthur had let this preoccupation spin way out of control, and it’s about time he contained it. They can get back to their proper roles now—Arthur as the objective party, and Merlin his obedient (well, _functional_ ) servant. No more sacrifice and martyrdom for this prince, thank you very much.

And as for Arthur himself? If the disappointment is heavy in his gut, it’s only the weight of burden that he, as future king, will simply have to carry.

Suddenly, a soft, insistent nudging comes at his temple. Arthur lifts his eyes—hadn’t realized he’d lowered them—as Merlin noses down, prompting Arthur’s attention.

“What?” he says irritably. Merlin doesn’t know when to let things go. “What is it?”

“You prat.”

Arthur gapes at Merlin, who looks positively disdainful. “ _What?_ ” he asks. “I just—I just bared my soul to you, you ungrateful lout. Do you think I’d admit that to just anyone?”

“Thick as always—“

Arthur laughs in disbelief. _He’s_ the thick one?

“—and self-centred. Like a spoilt prince.”

“Merlin, if you’re _trying_ to get yourself killed, just say so. Make a jump for it, no one’s stopping you—“

“Don’t I get a say?” Merlin asks, his tone presumptuous and demanding.

“A say in _what?_ ”

“You said—‘it won’t happen again’.” Merlin’s impersonation of him is truly ridiculous—Arthur doesn’t sound that snotty. “I’m involved in this, so I should get a say.”

“Well, _your Highness,_ “ Arthur grouses. “What would you have to say—“

Merlin cranes his neck up and plants his lips over Arthur’s half-open mouth.

He’s got terrible aim—fumbles the kiss entirely, if that’s what he’s trying to do. Merlin butts into Arthur’s mouth, mashing lips against teeth in a way that’s hardly romantic, but entirely laughable. Then Merlin—with the audacity to make a small noise of irritation, as if this painfully awkward situation is _Arthur’s_ doing—grabs him round the back of the neck and pulls him down.

Arthur follows in without grace, feet slipping as his weight falls squarely on Merlin’s lean, bird-thin body. _‘Come on,’_ Merlin murmurs against his slack mouth, heated and urgent.

Arthur’s wandering attention quickly reins in—that’s a challenge if he’s ever heard one. Arthur pulls back, studies Merlin’s panicked face for one brief moment before dipping back down to push their mouths together, fierce and sure, with all the authority he can pour into it.

 _This is how it’s done,_ he wants to convey. He’ll kiss Merlin within an inch of his life because Merlin had said _‘come on’_ and Arthur, he’ll come on all right. He’s the best at everything he puts his mind to, and if snogging his manservant is going on that list, well…heaven or hell be damned, Arthur is going to be the best Merlin’s ever _had._

Arthur takes a breath through his nose and deepens the kiss; it’s not aggressive, exactly, but _insistent_ —and only when Merlin’s struggling for breath does Arthur retreat, occupying himself instead with the heady taste of Merlin’s working throat. He brushes his lips over Merlin’s cheek, his jaw, returns to the upturned mouth below him.

 _“Arthur,”_ Merlin says, his voice lost between a hiss and a sigh. Arthur hears him though. With a final lingering kiss that ends on a hint of teeth, Arthur removes himself and opens his eyes.

Merlin’s cheeks are flushed, and he looks even more disoriented than usual. Mouth parted, Merlin’s pale lips have gone plump and pink under Arthur’s attentions.

 _Perfect._ Arthur grins triumphantly. “So. What was it you wanted to say?” he asks, with no small amount of smugness.

“That was all, um. All that I needed to say,“ Merlin stammers, and Arthur decides that he rather likes it when Merlin’s been kissed into a stupor. But then Merlin shakes himself, and a gleam returns to his eye. “If you’d said something earlier, we could’ve done this ages ago.”

Ah, yes. As if Merlin’s impudence could ever be erased for good—truth be told, though, Arthur wouldn’t want it any other way.

Still, he rolls his eyes theatrically and replies, "What was I supposed to say? _Merlin, I’ve fallen in love with you_ —“ Arthur stumbles at bit as the words slide past his guard, but inwardly shrugs and continues— “ _and your particular brand of shoddy service. Now, polish my sword. And you know the one I mean._ ”

Merlin’s cheeks turn a pleasant, burnished shade of red, but his voice is steady when he replies, “Yeah. You could’ve said that. I’d have been receptive.” He nibbles on the inside of his lip for a moment, then adds cheekily, “But you weren’t going to tell me on your own. Wanted to make both our lives miserable, instead. Aren’t you glad you asked me what I thought?”

Arthur doesn’t know whether to laugh outright or box his servant round the ears. But—predictably, as Arthur always seems to let Merlin get away with murder—he opts for the former. Chuckles a bit, saying fondly, “As if you could possibly contain yourself.”

“Lucky for you.”

Arthur smiles at this, his grin lopsided and real. While it’s probably making him look every ounce the idiot that Merlin looks on a daily basis, Arthur couldn’t honestly care less because that idiot—Merlin, who wants him too—is smiling back at him.

\-----

Somewhere between snogging like drunken teenagers and stumbling towards Merlin’s bedroom downstairs—Merlin chooses _now_ to be eager to tend to him—Merlin somehow convinces Arthur that his noble plan to stay bitter and single for the sake of his country is, as he puts it, _a crock of shite._

“But you’re—“ Arthur gasps. “You make me weak.”

“Do I, now?” Merlin does something wicked with his hand, which has snuck its way under Arthur’s shirt as he’s busy trying not to _fall down four flights of stairs,_ damn it.

“I mean it— _fuck._ Think of all the times I nearly killed myself saving your girly arse.”

“ _Girly,_ am I?” Merlin repeats, and Arthur would be incensed that he wasn’t paying attention to Arthur’s valid points except for the fact that he pretty much stopped paying attention himself the moment Merlin took his hand away—pity, it’d felt rather nice—and shoved Arthur against the curved wall. 

“You have no idea the number of times _I’ve_ saved _your_ arse,” Merlin claims, and he emphasizes this statement with a well-targeted, two-handed grab for said arse that— _Jesus_ —Arthur would find rather brutish, if Merlin hadn’t been distracting him with a pushy kiss that shuts Arthur right the hell up.

“I’m good for you,” Merlin says, after they break.

“Oh, really. I’d beg to differ,“ Arthur replies. Unfortunately, it doesn’t come out the way he wants, for his voice turns wobbly as Merlin presses a kiss to Arthur’s cheekbone and smiles against his skin, there.

Merlin never listens to him anyway—just slides long-fingered hands up Arthur’s rucked shirt as Arthur clears his throat noisily.

Merlin pauses, then drags his palms south.

“Merlin,” Arthur protests feebly. “This is a bad idea.”

“Why?” Merlin stops and pulls his hands away in a huff, using them instead to frame Arthur’s face in a manner not unlike his mother’s, who commands attention the same way…and Jesus, Arthur _really_ doesn’t need to be thinking about Merlin’s mother right now because he’s got a hard-on the size of the tower they’re in, and this is all getting rather fucked-up in his mind—

“Why is this a bad idea?” Merlin interrupts, holding his gaze. “So we risk our lives for each other. So what? We’re _saving_ each other, too. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“I guess…” Arthur says uneasily. Damn it, he hates it when Merlin makes sense.

“We’re not hurting anyone, endangering anyone.”

Arthur avoids Merlin’s piercing eyes, looking instead at his kiss-swollen mouth. He kind of wants to be done with the talking part, and it appears Merlin can sense it for he quirks his lips into a smile.

“We both want this. Why can’t we have it?”

Well, when he puts it like _that._

Arthur says something grumpily—doesn’t really know what, but Merlin looks relieved and leans in to kiss him so hard his mouth feels raw when they finally break for breath.

They don’t make it to Merlin’s bedroom. Not for the first round, at least, but Arthur’s quite content nonetheless—it gives them something to look forward to.

He’s already thinking about seconds when Merlin lifts his drowsy gaze and smiles at him, and it only spurs him to think about thirds, fourths—a limitless number of helpings that stretch into the future, as far the eye can see.

“You sap,” Merlin says, interrupting Arthur’s pleasant reverie. “I can see it. I don’t know how I missed it before—you, Arthur Pendragon. Are a _sap._ ”

“Oh, fuck off,” Arthur groans.

“No, fuck _me._ ”

Arthur stares. Feels his mouth lift into an involuntary smile before it turns into an outright laugh, and it only gets better when Merlin has the decency to look abashed.

“Prat,” Merlin mutters under his breath, his cheeks rosy under translucent skin, and it’s _exactly_ what Arthur wants to hear.

 

_End._


End file.
